“They have received their answer from the Oracle. Child, the message needed no interpreting priest. It was fearful and fearfully clear. The Pythia in her own voice, in ecstasy upon the tripod, warned them out of the shrine. ‘Quit Athens,’ was her cry. ‘Flee afar; fire and sword shall come upon your city—and not yours only, but many cities. My temple sweats blood; get ye away from my holy place; and steep your souls in sorrow.’” “Father, how dreadful; horrible!” “The priests, of course, are horror-struck. But they are triumphant, too. They have prevailed over me. The Athenians! Theria, the Athenians dare not go home with that message. We have told them, Timon and I, not to go home with it. That message would put their armies to rout before the Persians should strike one blow.” He stopped. His face took on a deep regret, almost abhorrence. Then he said hurriedly: “Theria, I have come to make you the Pythia. It is a last resort. You say you can pray. God grant you can! Oh, my child, put into this consecration every effort, every spiritual strength you know!” She was so dazed that she could only stand before him trying to say “Yes.” “You will leave the house early to-morrow morning. You will have your days of rites and preparation. But the Athenians will await your days. We will enter the Precinct as supplicants—you and I. The Athenians also as supplicants. Supplication may win the god.” He put his hands on her shoulders, gazing deeply into her eyes. But his mind was far away, wrapt in the purpose for his state. “Theria, the honour of the Oracle, the very saving of Athens and of all Hellas are in your hands. Pray, pray!” At the door he paused again with bent head. “You will have your wish now to stay a virgin. And you can never come home again.” She was alone. It is in such moments that one grows old. Maturity is not of years but of such experience. She was neither happy nor sad. What she had desired so long seemed strangely impossible now that it had come to her. There was no exaltation for the great task. She kept naming the task over to herself. “I am to win the good oracle which will save Athens. Apollo will give me a good answer if I supplicate.” But she felt very dazed. Now she laid aside her hated weaving. It was the last time. The Pythia did not weave. Greater tasks were hers. Theria’s home which had seemed so prison-like, that, too, she was leaving for ever. Very quietly she walked along the balcony to her own room and there stood thinking. How distant her father had seemed. The great state-sorrow weighed him down. He was beyond thought of her. Yet there had been something tragic in his face as though he were laying her as victim upon the altar rather than lifting her to the tripod.